


Credo in un Dio crudele

by Pseudothyrum



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode: Fugue, Gen, Narcissism, So much theatre symbolism, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudothyrum/pseuds/Pseudothyrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the last few quiet moments before he takes centre stage, Mason Gull takes a moment to appreciate the most important thing in life</p>
            </blockquote>





	Credo in un Dio crudele

**Author's Note:**

> Title is Iago's villain song from Otello.

He leans back in the half-light of his ill-gotten office, and lets his eyes drift closed. This, it has all been leading up to this. The crescendo of his greatest work. But first: a moment of silence, waiting in the wings for the cue, stage lights dimmed, the hush of anticipation. The actors stand ready to move onto the stage for their final scenes, though they do not yet know the lines he has written for them. Everybody will be dancing on a string to the music that he has composed, to the choreography that he has designed. It is all so perfectly arranged, as only one such as he could manage.

Everything is firmly in hand, he has a moment to indulge. He is firmly in hand. He lets his mind wander. There was something to be said for setting up the dominoes and watching them fall. He took great pleasure in this, in making something nearly as perfect as he himself is. But nothing compared to the pure joy he felt talking to the coppers, spelling out his plan for them right to their faces and seeing no light of understanding in their empty eyes. It was all he could do to keep from laughing at their utter confusion. They were all so perfectly dull. All except Morse, and even he had tread a step behind the whole way, dawdling at his heels like a precocious child. But he was worthy, the perfect man to play witness to these great doings. He had something like greatness in him, he stood on the precipice of it, held back by _rules_ and _laws_. Morse could understand his plan better than anyone else, could see the delicate beauty of what he had wrought. Morse would see, and despair, and in his grief Morse would spread it to the world. His revenge would be complete. He would be a legend. His breath hitches, he is overwhelmed by the glory, a moment of pure pleasure in the contemplation of his genius. Spent now, for a moment he is replete with satisfaction, with perfection. A moment of calm before the storm.

The clock is ticking over to eleven. The orchestra stands ready, poised to play this perfect, final song. The whole theatre sits on the edge of their seats to witness this, this brilliance. To bask in his glory, as all must. No one is ready for this dark perfection, he thinks, as he hears the aqua regia begin to do its work, but he will force them to look upon it. He will make the world stand up and pay attention. 

The curtain is rising.


End file.
